


a hole in your heart begging for adventure

by spock



Category: The Prisoner (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Body Modification, Codependency, Established Relationship, Loyalty, M/M, Memory Loss, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Pre-Canon, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 08:36:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5450252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dying in The Village has always been the path to freedom.</p><p>For 11-12, freedom has always been 909.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a hole in your heart begging for adventure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bakcheia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bakcheia/gifts).



He's ten miles into a long, straight stretch of road just outside the City when his headlights catch on the shape of a boy sitting off along the shoulder. It's sleeting rain and the kid's drenched, forearm balanced on his bent knee. His extended thumb is drooping listlessly, like a flower that's been waterlogged, stem no longer able nor willing to hold it upright. The ground beneath him is a bubbling pool of mud. The high beams of his car catch on the boy's eyes as they turn to look his way, making his irises translucent.

The boy stands up. He isn't shivering.

 

¹²³

 

2's son is different when is father isn't around. 909 always tries to be as unobtrusive as possible in every aspect of this life, but when he's tasked with keeping watch of 11-12 he makes a point of essentially never stepping away from the wall. He's always been quiet, awkward, someone that people hardly ever bother to spare a second look at. It's what's made him the best Undercover in The Village. 11-12 sees him, though.

Some days, it seems like 11-12 does nothing _but_ look at 909.

909 isn't quite sure if this is all some sort of test. If 2's in on it — if 11-12 is. Everyone inside of The Village is so careful, so guarded, it's impossible that 11-12 isn't aware of what he's doing. The options in front of 909 are clear but he doesn't know which of them would mark his failure. Is he expected to discretely sate whatever needs 11-12 has? To be his plaything? Is this a test of his character, his self control, where he's expected to reject 11-12's advances at every turn? Is it not just a test of his own willpower, but 11-12's as well?

11-12 never actually speaks to him, just stares, intently, unflinchingly. 909 makes a point of always looking at the middle of 11-12's chest, never matching 11-12's gaze, never acting above his station.

It takes no more than a handful of days for 11-12 to undermine his efforts. 909 arrives at 2’s home promptly at the start of his shift and is greeted to the sight of 11-12 standing at the foot of the stairs, shirtless. If ever he had entertained any doubts as to 11-12 not being 2's son, 909 will never do so again.

There's nowhere for 909 to look now. He can't do his job like this. He needs to actually _see_ 11-12 in order to monitor him. He alternates between squinting at the floor or glaring at the ceiling, trying to keep track of 11-12 from the corner of his eye. 11-12 does nothing else for the rest of the day but wander around the house like that, looking rather pleased with himself.

Right when 909 is about to leave for the day, 11-12 says, "Do you like colors?"

They've never spoken before. 11-12 rarely speaks in his presence at all. For the longest time, 909 thought him shy; then he was assigned the job of monitoring him. Now 909 suspects that 11-12 just doesn't care for him much. The thought has always bothered him more than it has any right to.

909 looks at him, properly, for the first time in months. He doesn't know how to answer. He sees 11-12 frown, aggressive, looking so much like his father. "What I mean is," 11-12 says again, knuckles cracking audibly as he clinches his fist, the sound amplified by the silence permeating through the house, echoing in the emptiness there. "Do you _have_ a favorite color?"

This too, feels like a test. "Green," 909 says, quickly. It feels right — but also wrong, in a strange, nebulous way. "Yellow," he adds, after a long pause, his voice wavering. That, at least, feels right. He has no idea why it does though, and that unsettles him more than anything else.

  

¹²³

 

909 opens his bedroom door as silently as he can manage, sticking his head through the gap once it's wide enough. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and itches his collarbone with one hand, almost casual. The other he uses to keep an iron grip on the doorknob, holding it steady, belying the contorted mess of feeling he's been trying to swallow back since he pulled over onto the side of the road.

In his bed lies 11-12, pillow abandoned, face pressed into the fresh sheets covering his mattress, feet hanging over the edge, exposed to the early morning chill that’s still lingering in the air. 11-12's always been taller than 909, and 909’s bed is hardly luxurious. It would be a bit of a squeeze to fit the both of them; they'd have to lie skin-to-skin, probably. 909 wouldn't mind. They'd spent so many days like that, pressed closed together in a bed where they had more than enough room to spread out had they had wanted to, though that was the last thing on their minds. 909 doesn't recall much, but he can remember that.

11-12 is wearing 909's clothes. He's got the blanket twisted up around his head, his arms. 909 can see how his shirt has ridden up, exposing the dimples that naturally press themselves into his lower back. He can see how the band of the already too-big borrowed pants sit low on his too-thin hips, elastic worn thin. 909 stares at the long length of 11-12's body and wonders if any of this is actually happening.

"Why didn't you sleep with me?" 909 tenses at 11-12's voice. It's so real, so much like he remembers — all that he _can_ remember — and the feeling of déjà vu it invokes in 909 makes him all the more certain that this isn't real, that it isn't happening. How many times has 11-12 manifested himself in his bed before this? How many times will it happen after, still?

He watches as 11-12 shakes himself free from the sheets, rolls onto his back, and stretches, spreading his legs so that his ankles rest of either corner of the mattress. "Sleep with me now," 11-12 says.

It actually hurts when 909 releases his grip on the door, metal having dug in and imprinted on his skin from the strength of his grip. Each step towards the bed feels as if he's marching towards his death. His actual death _had_ hurt less than this, because at least then he had been certain that 11-12 was real, that his touch was solid and tangible. Nothing could harm him when it was being delivered by 11-12's hand.

909 stands frozen at the foot of the bed once he reaches it, his hand poised to grab hold of 11-12's ankle, hovering in place, terrified that his touch will find nothing but air should he actually try. In the end, 11-12 takes the decision from him, as he always does, sitting up and reaching out to wrap his arounds around 909's shoulders, pulling him down onto the bed, with one hand tangled in his hair, the other squeezing the back of 909's neck.

11-12's knees come up to bracket either side of 909's flank, making it so that 909 has no other choice but to rest his full weight against him. "I've missed you so much," 11-12 speaks directly into his ear, voice hushed, soft, tragic. 909 turns so that he's nosing against 11-12's cheek, ghosting kisses against his skin, reveling in the heat of his body, how solid he feels, how real. "Why didn't you sleep with me?" This time, it's clear that 11-12 expects an answer.

"It's called being chivalrous," 909 says, deflecting. "How long were you sitting out there in the rain?" He doesn't ask, _How did you get out there_? _Why are you here_? _How long before your father comes and tears us apart, one way or another_? He tells himself that none of those things matter. That now, moreso even than the last time, he's happy for however much of 11-12 that he can get, however long their time together lasts.

909 keeps his weight steady when 11-12 starts to push up against him, working their hips together with small, deliberate motions. It feels amazing, even though they're both fully dressed. 909 drags his hands down 11-12's sides, slipping them into the backs of his borrowed pants. 909 kneads and squeezes the soft curve where 11-12’s ass folds into his thigh, and says, "I missed you too. So much."

 

¹²³

 

909 hasn't once thought of himself by his given name since he woke up from The Village, phantom ache burning along his spine, dread welling up inside of him. He was escorted off the premises with what felt like a fever dream's worth of memories already slipping away into the recesses of his mind, terrifying in their vagueness, Yet still, he hadn't wanted to return to the emptiness of what his life had been like _before_ , even if he wasn't exactly sure that the _after_ had taken place at all.

 

¹²³

 

11-12 never lets himself venture far from 909's side. 909 takes the rest of the week off from work as a result, to make it easier on the both of them. He's got an excess of sick days stored up, a sad indication on how monotonous his life had been, a litany of work-home-work, just him going through the motions, alive but not living.

It's in the middle of the night, house quiet around them, that 909 asks, "Do you remember anything?"

He listens to 11-12 tell the story of how they came to be and realizes that he hardly remembers anything. 11-12's head is pillowed on 909's thigh as he recounts every detail of their past, fingertips gently scraping along the the hair at his groin, the dearth of it at his hips. It upsets 909, listening to the story of _them_ , his heart pounding with how badly he wishes he could remember, how bitter he suddenly is that he has no memories of his own now, that he’s left with just 11-12's point of view.

11-12 must hear the jump of his pulse beneath his skin, because he stops speaking and tips his head up to look at 909, meeting his eyes. "It's all right," he says, gently, "we can share mine. After you — after _I_ — I never gave up on you, 909. Not once. I'm here because I never give up. Please don't ever give up on me."

 

¹²³

 

The entryway of 2's estate has flowers everywhere, all of them yellow, held by clear, crystalline vases that make it seem as if their bright green stems are hovering in midair.

For a moment 909 is taken aback at the sight of them. He forgets to keep hold of the door and it slams closed behind him with a resounding thud. Not a moment later one of the upstairs doors slams open and he watches from below as 11-12 races from across the hallway and down the stairs, finally seeming his age for once. He comes to a stop besides 909, standing so close that their knuckles brush. 909 feels a yearning to speak to him then, more than he ever has before.

"Do you like them?" 11-12 prompts.

909 can't think of anything to say besides, "Yes."

11-12 looks down at him, face pensive. "Do you know what all of them are?" 909 shakes his head. "Would you like for me to tell you?"

"Please," 909 says. 11-12 hooks their elbows together and drags him to the nearest table. There's Gypsy Dancer roses, primulas, sunflowers, daffodils, geums, daylilies, tickseed; all of them adoring whatever flat surface 11-12 had been able to cram them on to.

When they finish looking at them all 11-12 drags him to the stairs and seats himself on the steps. 909 feels something intrinsically wrong with standing while 11-12 sits, so he's forced to crouch down as well, taking one step lower than 11-12's own. "Have you always been interested in flowers?" 909 asks.

"Never," 909 doesn't hesitate in his answer. "I asked Father for them and then read up about them all last night. Yellow flowers signify the bonds of friendship and green is a sign of renewal. They're good favorite colors." 909's always known them to mean joy, a symbol of youth, but he likes that 11-12 sees something different in them, though he'd be hard pressed to say just why it is that he does.

11-12 ducks his head down and stares at his hands, where he's knotting his fingers together nervously. "I don't have any. Favorites, that is. Do you think I could have yours?" He stares at 909 from beneath his fringe.

909 smiles at him, small and closed lipped, the best he can do after so many years of disuse, and says, with absolute sincerity, "We can share them.”

 

¹²³

 

There are times when 2 is occupied with 11-12's mother, or when something in The Village takes up his full attention, and 11-12 and 909 can slip away for more than a few snatched hours at a time, sometimes even spending whole nights together.

Some days they'll go to the club and dance, everyone's eyes slipping off of them like drops of water, anonymous in a crowd, happy.

Other nights will find them sneaking just beyond The Village's limits, off into the desert, where they'll strip out of their clothes; 11-12 will lay back against a dune, sand still holding the warmth of the sun's heat, keeping any chill at bay whilst 909 sits astride his thighs and takes 11-12 into himself, lazily wringing orgasm out of orgasm from 11-12's youthful body, all the while staring at the rapture plastered across 11-12's face.

Then there are the evenings when 11-12 will sneak across town to 909's home, letting himself in through the front door that's never locked, and they'll spend a quiet night talking, tv turned down to a near-mute, the two of them balanced on the couch, pressed together from nose to ankles.

 

¹²³

 

The following Monday 909 really does have to go back to work. He spends the entire day in a state of unease, unsettled whenever someone calls him by his real name, eyes on the clock, waiting for his shift to be over so that he can race back to his home.

It shouldn't come as a shock when he walks through the front door and his house is as empty as it's ever been. He'd been expecting it all day — has been expecting it since he spotted 11-12 on the side of the road — but it still kicks the air from his lungs, has him dropping to his knees in agony.

Against his better judgement, he goes searching for a note. It's not in his nature to be hopeful; this thing inside of him that has him looking is a remnant of 11-12 himself, burned into 909’s very soul.

And then he thinks to himself, _please don't give up on me_ , and decides that he doesn't need one. 

 

¹²³

 

The Summakor building is just as imposing as 909 remembers it to be. There's a man standing outside who nods when he sees 909 and then leads him through the reception hall and down to the elevator, all without saying a word. 909 can see 2 at the end of the hallway, standing just outside of a door, when they disembark from the elevator.

"Ah, 909," 2 says, and leaves it at that. 909 takes it as his cue to join him. The walk feels endless. He holds his breath before turning to look inside the door, an old superstition from his youth that's survived into his adulthood.

11-12 sits on examination table inside. The skin from his left clavicle to upper abdominal is peeled back from his body, showing some kind of circuitry underneath.

"The good thing about dreams," 2 says, "is that oftentimes, if you think hard enough, you can pick them up right where you last left off."

11-12 turns to look at the doorway as his father speaks, his face lighting up when he sees 909 standing there. "I'm just about done with my check-up," 11-12 says. "Then you can take me back home, 909. It's not going to be a problem, right?" His eyes shift towards his father. 2 hums and smiles, agreeable.

"In some respects," 2 continues, "they're actually rather inescapable, really."

Under his breath, just loud enough for 909 to hear, 2 mutters, "But you know all about that, don't you, 909?"

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so the ending is actually happy — 2 will never let 909 break up with 11-12, but it's not like 909 will ever want to, so the threat is a bit moot — but if you want to take it truly menacingly, then mission accomplished; honestly, to anyone besides those two codependent jerks, it probably would be. 
> 
> Thanks so much to merriman for betaing this and saving us all from my love of commas. They are, in fact, the real MVP. 
> 
> It was so much fun to write in this fandom. Your prompts were wonderful and you're wonderful and — I really hope you like this, recip ♥ Happy Yuletide!


End file.
